Stains on White
by FreyaWazHere
Summary: A short Russia-centric fic. I listened to 'Polyushka Polye' By Origa and was quite inspired. GermanyRussia hinted, Some what dark. Not quite sure what genre it is.


Note: This is a dream, so that's why it's so weird.

People said black was nothingness. But Russia knew that was wrong. Black was despair, a refuge for dreams tossed aside, a world shaped by lies, and above all where you escaped to loneliness. But in the darkness, you needn't be afraid, because if you couldn't see the terrors out there they couldn't see you. It was with white that you saw every stain.

Eyes flickered open to a blinding whiteness. Russia squinted against the glare, giving his eyes a chance to adapt. Something cold landed on his nose. Snow. He stood, turning an amethyst gaze to the sky. The grey heavens above poured out millions of the downy flakes. His laugh was that of a gleeful child, but the kind of sincere charmed laugh. Dancing all over the blanketed field, Russia delighted in the weather. He ran, letting the cold air entwine with his pale hair and his scarf trailed after him like the ribbon on a dancer's baton.

It seemed like he had run miles. The bliss he experienced was too ancient a feeling. He wanted to pursue it forever in this snowy peaceful paradise. Turning to look back Russia noticed he had run in a strait line, foot steps evenly spaced, and enduring. Mounds sprang up along his steps before his eyes, in no reasonable pattern and unevenly spaced.

He looked down at his own two feet, feeling very small for his clothes. Magically they seemed to become a proper size. He took small tentative steps at first and slowly got more curious.

It didn't take to long to reach the first bump; it was small and oddly shaped, but still noticeable against the flat land. With a gloved hand, Ivan brushed aside the fresh snow until he found fabric; of all things he wasn't expecting that. He dug with more fervor, until he had uncovered most of a body. Anxiety gripped him, he knew the boy was dead but he had avoided removing any snow from the face. A tentative hand brushed it away. Russia recoiled in shock and fear; there was no mistaking those purple eyes. He was looking at himself, in the body of a six year old, clutching a Mongol spear, frozen forever in eternity. He gasped in pain, a faint line of blood seeping through his right sleeve, announcing presence to the wound underneath. Quickly Ivan moved away from the body, where he had been kneeling there was a single pink foot print.

Uneasy, Russia continued onward. Every so often another mound would appear on the horizon, and each time he uncovered another body, more cuts and scars, some smaller than others began to bleed. Fingers numb, he kept digging, even though he knew what they were, he needed to dig, to discover what lay beneath the snow.

The wind picked up, pelting him with unforgiving shards of ice and chilling him to the core. The marks on his body kept growing with each sad tale pulled from memory's icy clutches, some hard to pull back and some buried with just a thin layer of frost.

As everything came back, the clouded parts of memory brushed away of their fog, the crushing guilt and pain increased. Every stop yielded another ghostly reminder of a triumph or fail. Frozen images of himself, Poland, Prussia, Sweden, Turkey, France, unmoving, anguish or fear chiseled onto their cold faces; a perfect representation of history. The wounds deepened, and his foot prints grew steadily redder.

He tried to run, cover his eyes, terrified by the truth laid bare. But his legs dragged him onward. If he tried to get past the deathly snowbound figures the wind would howl and drive him sobbing to dig through his past, hands to numb to feel. The blood soaked through his pants and coat, the normal pure scarf leaving a steady red line in the snow.

Each time he thought it was over there were always more, always more pain and always more tears. His legs felt heavy as lead, to move he had to drag himself. The chill had already eaten its way through him, the hundreds of gashes numb, and the only sign they were there was the constant pitter-patter of the scarlet drops staining the snow.

He could barely walk when he uncovered another shadow of himself, this time in a royal guard uniform. A pain akin to that conceived when being hit by a bullet, burned through him. Bloody Sunday.

Russia gasped in pain, body trembling and tears freezing on contact with the unforgiving blizzard. Behind him the trail of scarlet stood boldly spreading its taint as far as it could. He knew what was to come, but didn't know how he'd ever be able to move. Russia's journey had brought him to the home stretch, the 20th century. He had to face nearly 50 million deaths, with only the frigid wind to cover him.

Legs out of commission, Russia forced his broken body to crawl leaving bloody hand prints in the snow. Burgundy streams slid down pale cheeks, and his screams of horror and anguish mixed with the ethereal groans and shrieks carried from everywhere and every time, to here by the wind. As he forced himself past the hills, the cries of the dead grew louder. Not daring to glance behind him, Ivan's movement progressed to a crawl. From above he appeared to be a scarlet flag, a spot of crimson besmirching the pale wasteland.

It wasn't long before he could barely move, and was reduced to dragging his torn figure by a single arm. Dizziness took over and the blood blinded him before freezing to the solid tears and falling to the ground.

When he thought he could move no longer something brushed his finger tips. It took all his energy to flip over and see a giant wall preventing his escape. The wind pushed him up against it and through the blizzard and blood Ivan could barely make out the spectral figures of his past. So this was the end huh? He tried to laugh but all that came out was a mouthful of blood.

_Kolkolkolkolkol... Look at you now; I thought you were supposed to be great._

_No. _Russia thought sadly, _far from it. Being great means nothing if you can't protect the ones you love, if you can't correct past ills…_

_Pathetic. _From down the path that Russia's blood had left, a solid figure appeared between the ghastly ones. Cruel violet eyes surveyed the broken form before him with distaste. _Look at me, is that any way to greet yourself? _Ivan looked up and immediately wished he hadn't. He saw himself, but not as the man who had been slowly warming up, breaking away from his protective shell, but the purely evil one, with nothing but coldness in his frosted purple eyes.

The dark Russia used the pipe to lift Ivan's chin up. _So you thought you'd forget about me? Bury me away?_

I… I want to start again; I don't want people to fear me, hate me.

The figures laugh was high and equally pitiless. _Start again, you can't! Look at us, history is set, it is forever frozen out here! See what we've gone through, we can't change the only way to survive is to remain as we are, cold and unforgiving._

But... His eyes were downcast. I don't want to be like that anymore. I won't be like that anymore! Ivan glared at his evil self. You're the part of me that hurts those I seek to love. I don't want that and I don't need you!

Behind him the wall flickered, a warm breeze carried a touch of sunflowers. _Tell him Ivan…he isn't you, he can't control you._

_See this?_ The dark Russia gestured to the whole land around them. _This is ours, it's our field, and it's forever stained crimson with the millions of deaths. We can't escape this._

The warm breeze spoke again. _It doesn't matter, I don't care! My past is nearly as stained as yours._

_Silence! _The winds picked up and the wall solidified as the dark ones fury grew. _You don't understand, you'll never understand what we've been through, what we've done to prevent us from being hurt. Keep your thoughts and sympathies to yourself German scum!_

German…? Ludwig is that you?

_I'm here, Ivan. I'm here to take you away._ The breeze whispered, and warmed him.

Ivan struggled to stand, using the wall for support. He breathing came heavy and labored and his knees shook, barely able to support his weight. When the wall faltered again a pair of strong arms caught him. Rushing forward the evil Russia looked like something out of a nightmare. Russia, don't be a fool you'll just hurt us, and this we won't be able to get back from! He grabbed hold of the medal on Ivan's blood soaked coat.

I will never let that happen! Ludwig's voice growled protectively.

Ivan shook his head at the darkness. You're wrong, I will survive. I always have and I always will. I'm Russia.

The scream of rage echoed across the barren tundra as the pin holding the medal broke, and Ivan slipped through the wall into a new field, one full of warmth, and sunflowers.

Authors note: Really short GerRus, thanks to a roleplay I love this pairing, yes uke Russia.


End file.
